I STILL CAN'T THINK UP A WITTY TITLE!
by SpellBell
Summary: Girls all through the ages learn from eachother, the '60s, the '20s, the '40s, the 1600s... all stuck in the 1800s, and they're ready to have the time of their lives... but can they accept change, and love, and most importantly... eachother?
1. The Roarin '20s

_Thank you all for your wonderful applications. I'm sorry it took me so long to update, partly because kicked me off for a few days, which is somewhat understandable. Anyways, so i've only gotten a _small _amount done, but don't worry your next! Enjoy, and review!  
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**Marbles, 1920, Chicago**

The club was swinging, the sound of authentic Jazz reverberated throughout the famous Chicago club. You could almost see the heat rising from the piano player's hands, his fingertips dancing some hot jig on the ivory keyboards of the piano. His skin was glistening with sweat, but he was smiling, probably at the uproarious tumult of Jazz that seemed to come from his soul rather than the skill of his well-worked hands. Of course, that's what Jazz was all about. That's what the '20s were all about. Marbles knew that better than anyone.

If you were to judge Marbles by just looking at her, you'd probably get it all wrong. Leaning casually against the bar with a mixed drink in her hand, staring out amongst the crowd looking for familiar faces, you'd probably mistake Marbles for just another one of those jump-on-the-bandwagon, baby vamp, loves-to-have-a-drink, no-depth kinda gals, who you could enjoy for a goodnight of... fun, and then who you'd probably get tired of. After all, those girls were everywhere, why waste your time on one who's exactly like all the other ones? Sure, she had that certain appeal,with her curvy body, short black curls and eyes that matched her honey smile. She'd be something to brag about alright. But then something to forget, _right?_

But Marbles wasn't like that. She may have the look, and that sweet flirtatious smile that gave way to tongues lolling out of some guys mouths, and sure, she enjoyed a drink as much as the next girl... Hell, Probably more! But she had a lot more depth than to settle for hanging on some guy's arms and giggling at all his stupid jokes, and she wouldn't be the kind of girl who would turn her eyes when the guy in question winked and nudged his friends. Nope. Marbles stood up for what was right, and she had made a permanent friend of all those who were weaker than she was. She didn't like to see people get pushed around just because of their station, gender, size, race... Marbles didn't see people like that. As for conforming, she had never followed the trends just because all the 'celebrities' were. She did what she wanted, even if she looked stupid doing it. And there were _definitely_ times she looked stupid.

But Marbles wasn't like that. She may have the look, and that sweet flirtatious smile that gave way to tongues lolling out of some guys mouths, and sure, she enjoyed a drink as much as the next girl... Hell, Probably more! But she had a lot more depth than to settle for hanging on some guy's arms and giggling at all his stupid jokes, and she wouldn't be the kind of girl who would turn her eyes when the guy in question winked and nudged his friends. Nope. Marbles stood up for what was right, and she had made a permanent friend of all those who were weaker than she was. She didn't like to see people get pushed around just because of their station, gender, size, race... Marbles didn't see people like that. As for conforming, she had never followed the trends just because all the 'celebrities' were. She did what she wanted, even if she looked stupid doing it. And there were times she looked stupid. 

Marbles smiled, taking some more of her drink and savoring the bitterness of it, tossing back her head and closing her eyes just a second too long. It was so odd to watch all of these people, hunger and sweat glistening on their bodies and in their motions. Beneath the music you could barely hear the shy giggling of girls who had yet to learn about the Jazz way of life. Excuse me, the _only, _way of life. The buzz of sexual tension, unspoken of, was getting louder each time a new couple left together, holding eachother a little too tight than was usual. Marbles frowned into her drink, wondering why she had yet to be approached that night. She knew she was pretty, she knew she had the 'look', she knew that her award-winning smile could melt the coldest heart... so why the hell was no one coming up to her! She sighed in resignation, and was about to leave the bartender with the most generous tip she could afford to leave when she heard a familiar voice, breaking through the cracks and gaps in the crowd.

She signalled for another drink.

"Marbles!" Marbles looked over to see some hip-hound walking over to her. Or trying to walk, with all the alcohol in his system all he could do was sway, out of rythm with the rest of the place, slow and steady rather than upbeat. It was Marble's opinion that if you couldn't hold your drink, you shouldn't drink and then try and act like you could. She had no sympathy for those kind of people. Sometimes Marbles wished she could get that drunk. She saw girls drink nothing more than a cocktail and they'd be stewed to the hat! But that wasn't the case with this guy... and she would know.

"Marbles!" She looked at him, his drunk face oblivious to her cringe at the acidic trail of alcohol trickling down her throat and ending to burn a hole in her stomach.

As if she already wasn't suffering enough.

"Dave." She let the monosyllable drop from her lips coldly, and she ignored the sudden lurch in her stomach.

"Baby, baby, baby. How's my little bear-cat these days, huh?" Bear-cat. A hot blooded female? Well, that did sound somewhat like her. She was hardly sweet or demure like some of the other girls at the Private School she attended. She thought of herself, the hot-blooded female she was, ditching all those low-cut dresses her mother was hardly fond of, and ditching that "rebellious attitude" of hers. Why, who would she be then? Probably like her sister. She almost laughed out loud. Instead she swallowed it, saving it for another time when she'd need it more than she did right now. Who needed a laugh at a time like this? She signaled to the bartender for another drink.  
Dave saw her smile, and his grin grew uncannily wider, sinister thoughts swirling in the haze that was his brain. He saw only Marbles, her black tresses and her hot-enough-to-make-you-melt honey brown eyes, smiling up at him, and he took that as a sign that she had accepted his apology...  
He was wrong.

Daydreaming, she hadn't noticed him inching clumsily toward her, until his face was only inches away from hers. He smelled like something strong, something you wouldn't get at a local bar like this. She'd heard a rumor that his parents made moonshine, that Dave knew how. Up until then, she hadn't had proof enough to believe them. She looked into his face, saw him smile ludicrously at her, his lips puckering up and his hands raising to grope her publically. She was too shocked to move at first, and she saw that he had a pimple right over his left eyebrow. He nuzzled her neck with his lips. "I've been missing you, kid... so much I can't sleep." His voice was ragged, and every nerve in her body was signalling her to move, move, _MOVE_! It seemed she was much to rebellious to listen.

Or much too scared.

She felt his lips on hers, hungry and demanding. She tasted moonshine, and musk, and... aggresion. His tongue delved deeper, choking her, and she was now trying to release herself from the jaws of life. Or rather, the jaws of death. When she broke free, she gasped for air, and thought only of what in the world she could drink to rid herself of this taste in her mouth. She had just a few seconds ago savored the acid feel of slime trickling down into her, giving her a buzz. Now, she thought only of what she could to to rid her mouth of this awful taste, this savage taste. She felt bile raise in her throat, along with anger. Why the hell should he treat her this way? Why didn't she _do_ something about it?

Dave noticed the heightened flame in her eyes. The igniting of her passion for him... or so he thought.His cheshire grin grew and grew, and his hands came closer and closer, and that's when she realized he had backed her into a corner. A dark, dim corner. She didn't realize what was happening, it all went too fast, a curse from her, a scream, something hard, fumbling hands, angry eyes... Then she was out of herself.

Literally, as if she were having some kind of Out of Body Experience. She'd heard about those, and when she'd been a little kid she had "meditated", trying to obtain the right piece of mind needed for leaving the prison that was her body behind. She'd wanted to visit Heaven. Well, despite her best efforts she had remained Earthbound. Until now, it seemed. She felt an eery sensation, and then a breath of freedom. She looked down and was surprised to see herself. Caught up in this heavenly daze, she smiled.  
_Hello down there...that outfit i'm wearing sure is the bee's knees!_  
Looking down, she realized that there was someone with her.  
_I wonder who that could be... Oh its Dave!... OH! Its _Dave_!  
_It seemed even her out-of-body-self could sense danger. Of course, with Dave involved, you didn't exactly have to be Einstein to figure that out.  
_What are you doing to me! MARBLES! ME! WAKE UPPP!_  
She fought to get back down from her narrative perespective, but was only sent higher, until the whole club was hers to admire.  
_Help! Help! ANYONE!  
_The next thing she thought of was _how the hell was she going to get out of this one_?

"Excuse me!" Marbles looked down to see a dark beauty below her. She was shoving through the crowd to get to Marbles limp form, and at the sound of an approach Dave took the hint to scram. No one saw where he went, in fact, no one seemed to have noticed. Marbles watched in a somewhat detched interest as the woman shoved through dancers forcefully. It was actually quite impressive.

The young woman hissed at the crowd that had gathered around, and told them to beat it. With her imposing height and air of sophistication, she seemed like some sort of up and coming celebrity. She had brown skin, and because of this Marbles was reminded of the innocent summers of her youth... the grass irritating the back of her neck, and the smell of car exhaust tickling her nostrils. That was the most still she'd ever been in her whole life... She looked at herself again. Well, until now it would seem.

Her mother had scolded her, lecturing on and on about her precious skin"...in my day woman took great care of their skin. Everyone hoped to get the same ivory pallor that has come to you so naturally. And now you're all red and brown. Honestly, Elise, I just don't understand you." Now that she thought of it, her mom had always had this really pale freckled skin. Marbles supposed her mother was just angry about her not taking care of her skin because she was jealous she didn't have it herself. She had once tried to show her mother what it was like to lay down in the grass, the ants crawling down your shirt and sweat sticking to the back of your knees. The way the sun baked you, no, more like it seemed to breathe life into you, hug you close, nurse you with its sunshine. Of course when she'd tried to tell her mother about this, tried to show her, her mother had gotten this pale look in her eyes, and had opened her mouth in a perfect O. This was what she did when she made protest. Then she had yanked her hand away from Marbles and started scrubbing furiously at the counter, mumbling softy so that Marbles couldn't hear what she said exactly, but loud enough for Marbles to get the point.

Thinking about it, she frowned, and felt a slight pressure in her cheeks.

"Ma'am?" Her voice was soft, gentle. It cascaded over her warmly, like... like sunshine. Marbles opened her eyes a crack and realized that instead of looking down at the woman, she was looking up. Up into her worried, warm dark eyes. Up at her smooth brown complexion, at her frowning lips, and her furrowed brow. Marbles felt a sigh of relief trickle somewhere deep within her. She looked up at the woman, mesmerized by her genuine emotion. Looking into her eyes, Marbles saw all these woman's summers. Cool lemonade, cooking out in the small backyard, a large man bellowing with laughter and a little girl bouncing on his knee..."Ma'am?" Marbles let her voice slide over her, let relief take her away. This woman... she reminded her of something.  
"Can you talk?" Marbles opened her mouth to find her own voice, wondering at the croaking, choked voice which came out.

"What did you say?" The woman was pressing her face eagerly near to Marbles.

She tried out a whisper. "You remind me of..." The young woman, about Marbles own age she guessed, snapped her head back and looked down at her.

"What?" Marbles tried to find the words to answer. What was that thing, that thing where you walked around the streets smiling all the time, even as sweat dripped uncomfortably down your back, as the fabric of the gab suit clung to you... that thing where you sat out on the porch drinking gallons of sweet tea and snatching an ice cube to slip down your sister's shirt before anyone saw... that thing where you made homemade icecream and sat on the porch to watch the day go by, knowing you had no obligations... that feeling of happiness, wholeness, freedom, love, warmth? It was something you always wanted to last forever. You dreaded it ending, rejoiced its beginning...

"Summer." Marbles smiled, pleased with herself, and then everything went black.

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_So whaddya think? _


	2. Modern Days, Good Days

**Modern Day**

(sorry guys... i'm on a creative spurt... and expect many more updates soon!)

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_"Oh Eric" She said breathlessly, wrapped in his masculinely toned, tanned arms. His lean structured face gazing down at her, the look in his eyes making her insides tremble with a bittersweet hunger. He stroked her cheek with the knuckles of his left hand, and she lifted her eyes to his. He gazed down at her solemnly, and pulled her even closer to him, against him, his body demanding he satisfy its needs, and so he bent down and grazed her lips with his, and he felt a groan rise from his throat, and felt her mouth part softly beneath his, for a long awaited kiss... _

"... Miss Dunleavy?" Her head snapped up, and she felt her cheeks redden as 30 pairs of eyes turned to stare at her.

"...Um... what was the question?" The class snickered and her ears became scarlet flags of distress. Her teacher, a middle aged woman, somewhat plump with overly-large glasses perched on the end of her nose, strode over to her desk and before Spell could hide the erotic-fluff she's previously been entertained by, it was snatched out of her hands.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here, Miss Dunleavy? Structured reading I hope?" Spell opened her mouth to protest but was cut off by her new teacher's searing gaze, as she prepared to read aloud to the class._ "She arched her back, her mouth open with the groan caught between the viciousness of his mouth on hers again. His fingertips trailed fire from her head t her toes, and she felt a luscious warmth gathering between her thighs. 'I've long waited for this, for you.' He said with a groan, trailing kisses down her chest, ravaging her body. 'Ever since the day, I saw you steeped in only water, your body flushed and rosy and your strawberry peaks at their tip-" _

The class murmured excitedly, and leaned forward in their seats, and subconsciously Spell was disgusted that they had all scorned her for reading books like this. Now they knew! cue evil laugh

"Miss Dunleavy-" The class sank back in their seats, bored again because they realized that their erotic session was over for the day. "I'm well aware you're new to this school but-" At that precise moment the door creaked open.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you" Spell mumbled under her breath, gazing at the door to see who it could possibly be that had undoubtedly saved her from utter embracement, and being known as that perverted new girl... she'd probably already earned the nickname but it didn't matter, because the person had saved her from the teacher's wrath.

"Ah, Miss Callan. Late again I see?" Her teacher's magnified yet still beady little eyes stopped the figure in the doorway mid step.

"Um, yes ma'am, so sorry. Won't happen again. Promise." And she had a lilt. Some sort of lilt. Irish perhaps?

"Well, it better not, or you can guarantee that your seat will be empty and you'll be in suspension... in or out of school. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am." Irish mumbled and then ducked her head into her literature book to catch up with the rest of her classmates. As Irish concentrated, or tried to concentrate, on the text dancing beneath her eyes, Spell looked over to get a better look at the person who had inadvertently saved her from a lecture on the first day of school from the most hated teacher in school. She had shoulder-length, brown hair, with honey and gold woven through it simultaneously. The girl inclined her head ever so slightly, as if hearing her thoughts. She got a glimpse of her eyes. Violets and bluebells, translucent faerie wings caught in the sunlight, were the color of her eyes. Now that the girl had gotten her attention, really caught it with her faerie eyes (she'd always had a weakness for faeries), Spell began to closely observe her, pulling out a white and black notebook where she kept all her best observations.

Flipping to the nearest page Spell bit down on the tip of her pen cap and tilted her head to gaze more intensely. She noted that the girl carried herself well, she had strutted in the room with a sort of posed confidence. Spell was curious, of course, because it was rare that girls with faerie eyes and poised figures strutted through the doorway at impossible moments in her life... Spell noticed her pale simple cream blouse, clinging to her well-spread-throughout body in an intentional, or was it unintentional? way. Irish snickered to herself, and flicked off a guy a few rows down from where she sat. Spell was pleased, and amused, and so saying she began to write all that she had seen that day.

Meanwhile, Irish leaned over, oblivious to the girl observing her, and began pestering her best friend of over 15 years. "Sketch. Sketch. Hey! Sketch!"

"What?" Sketch hissed, turning her brilliant mossy eyes on her friend, huffing a bit because she'd been in the middle of a sketch of a boy three rows over, who with his actions and his facial expressions had reminded her of a mime... Now, if Spell had been looking, she doubtless would have noticed this girl as well, especially with the faraway look in her eyes that clashed so artistically with the piled up messy bun on her head. Her hair was a dark brown, and straight, and while she had groaned about the color she wouldn't consider dyeing it. She wasn't as tan as some of the other girls in the class and she exuded the fine makings of a bohemian, especially with her oddly shaped glasses and her dancing eyes, as well as the witty sarcasm that seemed to pour from her consistently. She was brilliant in her creativity. At the moment, she was trying to ignore her dear friend Irish, her quite nearly opposite. She had her chin in hand and was gazing out at the great gray sky, challenging it boldly with her exuberant green eyes, dancing merrily with the streaks of lightning.

She flipped the page, still gazing out the window, and she bent over her desk, forgetting her friend in favor of her sketch pad. Irish rolled her eyes, looking over at her friend, her twisted pink mouth in a line of determination, while her eyes suggested dreaminess. Of course, her friend was nearly gorgeous, in a different kind of way. She never wore lip gloss, and if she did she settled for the clear kind. At the moment Sketch was wearing a faded pair of worn in blue jeans, naturally faded, and a teeny little shirt that accentuated her curves, which were then hurriedly hidden beneath the always handy brown cord jacket.

Irish sighed, looking down at her own outfit. Some black jeans and a creamy blouse. She sighed and picked at her jeans, wondering at her beauty, and if she even had any. Little did she know... In a sigh of frustration, she took advantage of her anger and yanked her friend's sleeve. "SKETCH!" She hissed between her teeth.

"WHAT!" Sketch shouted, drawing the attention of the class again, eager for a new drama upon which to distract themselves. Sketch looked back at all of them defiantly. "What are you looking at?" they turned away and resumed note passing and quiet gossip.

"What'd I miss?" Irish asked after a short time, smiling innocently.

"Not too much," She replied in all honesty. "You know, same as always, spit balls, lectures, the teacher reading aloud erotic romance novels to the class..."

"WHAT!" Irish squealed.

"Yea, I know, how boring" Sketch yawned loudly.

"Sketch!". Sketch sighed and shoved away her sketch book, giving it up as a lost cause.

"Ok, well, basically the teacher caught 'Miss Dunleavy' reading some cheap paperback romance, which, by the way, you can get at Reedman's Book Store for as little as .75 cents." Sketch seemed pleased with herself for knowing this little tidbit of information, and having done her duty, she bent over her desk once again, dismissing her friend.

"Miss Dunleavy?" Irish wondered aloud.

"Mhmm..." Sketch said, caught up in the shadows playing on mime boy's face... Irish felt the furrow in her brow, pondering the feel of the name on the tip of her tongue. It felt unfamiliar.

"New?"

"Mhmm..." Irish rolled her lovely eyes away from her friend, and gazed around the room looking for new faces. There was the same skinny girl in the front row with the buckteeth and her hand in the air... there was the clique of hippy chicks, giggling at their gauze skirts and face paint; there were the shielded emo(s), hiding within their black or red or blue hair; There were those that most of her school called "popular", and they were fervently reapplying lip gloss. There was the exotic girl, with her thick jet black hair, and her red lips and black outlined eyes.

Irish frowned. She wasn't at all sure why the idea of a girl with an Irish last name and a fetish for romance novels seemed to intrigue her so much, but she didn't question it too much. A glimmer of sunlight danced through the clouds, and a flash of gold caught her eye. Irish glanced around the room, trying to place it, and then she saw it. Her, actually. She was stooped over her desk, hiding her cheap novel between the larger literature book.She saw that her finger was in her mouth and she was unconsciously biting on its nail. Nail-biter. Ah.

First Irish noticed her hair, her cut as well as the color; an impossible color of blonde, but so realistic it couldn't be denied of its authenticity, with side swept bangs and wavy layers. Next, she noticed her pout, natural of course, and flushed rose, like her cheeks. She wore a faded distressed pair of jeans and a bold corset. Her foot was jiggling ever so slightly in her ragged white flip flops. So suddenly it went almost undetected her hand shot out from underneath the desk, flicked off the teacher and then retreated once again. Irish laughed, a little too loudly in the silence, and Spell swerved around to face her. Then, her eyes. Far different from Irish's faerie eyes, or Sketch's giddy, wild exuberant green ones, this girl's held the green blue of a savage wilderness, the shadow of gnarly branches scratching at the sky, the reflection of the sea's shadows caught in a struggle between sun and storm.

Sketchy looked up, amused by her friend's sudden silence, and she caught the drift of her friend's gaze. All three girls acknowledged each other.

"Hey," Sketch said, her pencil now down. (Well, actually, tucked behind her ear)

"Hi," Irish said, cocking her head to the side, feeling oddly at ease.

"Hello" Spell said, and moved over a few seats, as if it was expected of her. Spell opened her mouth, and shut it, as if deciding what to say. "So..." She didn't know why the question had come out of her mouth, she reached out to stop it, tried to swallow it down, but it pounded its fist at the back of her throat until it had spilled from her mouth. "Ever seen Newsies?"

The two friends looked at each other and cracked up laughing. "Meet the NOA, Newsies-Obsesses-Anonymous. You're the new member." Sketchy said, smiling a half crooked smile.

"How many are there?" Spell asked, relieved that the question had been useful, and even bonding.

"Well, so far, what with recent statistics and careful studies..." Sketch began, pretending to ponder with a scrunched up face.

"Three." Irish admitted, and they all laughed again.

"GIRLS!" The teacher huffed, her glasses beginning to fall down her long, narrow nose, at odds with her much more plump body.

"Sorry" They chorused, and chuckled to themselves quietly.

"By the way, the name's Sketch. What's yours?" Spell took Sketch's outstretched hand and gripped it firmly, which Irish noticed with relief.

"The name's Spell. Just moved here." She admitted a little sadly.

"No kidding? Name's Irish, by the way." They all shook hands formally.

"Yea, no kidding. My first day here and I get caught with a romance novel. How embarrassing.." She agonized. Sketch laughed, despite herself.

"Well... what are you doing after school?" Irish asked, not needing to ask Sketch, because her friend knew full well what the plan was. It was Friday night, after all.

"What were you thinking?" Spell asked, relieved to have found these two.

"Oh, nothing out of the ordinary... Just a few gals and guys, and some refined food, as well as some hors' deurves and some classy music."

"Translation:" Sketch began "Us 3 girls, maybe more, and the guys? You know them well." Spell was curious. She hardly knew anyone here. "Yea, they go by the names of Race, Jack, Mush, Spot..." Spell laughed, glad that this was what the night had in store for her. "And as for the classy music and the refined food... well, what I had in mind was some videos and maybe a few CDs, and er... cookie dough and chips. So... whaddya think?"

"YES!" Spell punched a fist in the air.

They chuckled unaware of the trembling of the sky, and the shiver in their hearts.

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_Eh, eh? Not TOO bad, hmm? I know, not my best, but expect YOUR part of the story soon... if I get some feedback... Heh._

_Love,_

_Spell._


	3. The Tumultuous '60s

**Hey ya'all! I'm so excited, I have 3 new chapters to post this weekend. I hope you enjoy this one. IF YOU DO NOT LIKE THE WAY YOU ARE PORTRAYED PLEASE INFORM ME AND I PROMISE TO REPAIR THE DAMAGE I MIGHT HAVE DONE! In other news, i'm looking for a few more girls, mostly for the '60s, and the '1800s and if you want, the 1600s. And MODERN! I accepted all the casting calls I got, but I still need more girls, so if you're interested please email me at In other news... er... read on!

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The Tumultous '60s**

_She was staring out the window, at the blue sky. She had just finished the newly recommended romance novel, Number One on the Romance Times, called Land Of Peace and Goldfish. Yet she could not move her hand to turn the final page. Frusturated, she squirmed and emitted a high-pitched wail, shattering the nearest light bulb. Fortunately, the book had flown across the room, leaving only the last page to read. _

_"And so the Goldfish was crowned King. The End." She sighed. What a lovely book. Looking out the window again she absently noted that the sky was no longer blue but a faded jet black, and it was snowing rather hard. _

_Snowing? In California? How inconvenient! She sniffed indignantly._

_"Tiger?" A familiar voice cooed. Tiger licked herself. "Yes, mother?"_

_"May I come in?" Her mother's voice was pleading behind the think wood-panel of the door. Tiger felt her gut wrench in guilt, suddenly feeling pity for her poor mother, trapped behind the door Tiger had required, separating the nothingness of air around it. _

_"You may." Tiger settled back into the cocoon on blankets and looked up at the approaching figure, hazy in the light outlining her. It seemed to her, even though she could not see her mother, that she was wearing some sort of dress, as if she had a reason to put thought into her outfits like she used to._

_Tiger's mom stood firmly in the doorway in a pretty, sensible, yellow sundress. She wore an apron around her lithe waist and her icicle like eyes were set off by the cornflower blue sunflowers on it. _

_"Mom!" Tiger exclaimed in a rare bout of approval, as she stepped through the doorway into the abundant light of the room. Tiger noted that she must have bathed, which she only did once or twice a month, and only when it was completely necessary. "You look…" She searched her vocabularly for the words that would correctly fit the unusual situation "Well groomed." She finished lamely. _

_Tiger's mom's grin was almost dangerous, her feline teeth flashing in the reflected light. Her white lashed eyes were wide and her large pupils were snake-like slits of black against the cold cold blue. She licked her paw and reached behind her ear with her hind leg. Her white hair was well brushed and, Tiger assumed, picked for fleas.  
"Tab's coming over." Her mom said, tail flicking in amusement, and an uncalled for purr vibrating her graceful presence. "For dinner, and you're not to disturb us." Her mother put her paws on her hips and Tiger watched the glint of her claws. She barely swallowed her gulp. _

_"What will I eaaaat?" She whined, seemingly oblivious to the fact that there was an abnormally large cat in her doorway in a threatening position, looming over her._

_Her mother yawned, and yards of pink toungue rolled from her mouth delicately, as her ears flattened against her skull unintentionally. Tiger noticed the white hairs on her tongue._

_"Well, as you well know, I can't afford any 'fancy feast'," her mother mewed at her own wit and continued "So…" She set down a bowl of meow mix near the pile of blankets and stroked Tiger's head lovingly. Tiger purred and arched her back under the rough texture of her paws. Her mother chuckled and went away, leaving Tiger alone. Tiger sniffed and noticed the saucer of milk her mother her left for her, chilled too, just like she liked it. She mewed herself and then leaped gracefully off the bed in an umistakable feline movement. _

_She went to the bowl of food and took a daring bite. She discovered, with no lack for digust, that it was liver flavored. Sighing, she peeked out the small crack in the doorway and noticed that Tab had arrived and was sitting at one head of the small dining room table, licking his paws and purring with contentment, his eyes shut in the revelry or delicacies. She noticed, also, that there was a goldfish bowl in the middle of the table… an empty one.  
"Frank! And Borris!" She didn't feel too much remorse, as she'd planned a similar ending herself. Tiger sighed, noting to herself the unfairness of her cold, snowed-in, liver-flavored, gold-fish-less life. She mewed in agony, and several dogs began to bark at her window…_

Tiger jerked awake. "What the--" Her head seemed to sway unpleasantly and her stomach lurched in grumbled, contradicting itself in so many ways that she clutched it as if that were the answer to solving her problems. "What the hell?" She repeated, jerking around and noticing the rickety lurch of the ride and the scattered candy wrappers carelessly strewn about the floor. Not to mention the pungent smell of marijuana. She squeezed her eyes shut, momentarily lost. Her mom… a cat? No, no, that had been a dream… hopefully. Goddamn smoking always had that side-effect on her, she remembered with sudden clarity, and chuckled as if the situation were actually quite funny.

"T-i-i-ggggeeerrrrr" A voice wheedled, surprisingly close to her face, with a small burst of warm air on her cheeks and a lock of her trying conspicuously to slip inside her mouth. She tried not to sputter, at least for now, as she tried frantically to place where exactly she was.

She wondered vaguely if she could feign sleep for much longer, to figure out exactly what kind of people she was with, and if she had willingly gone with them, and if so… why?

'Free weed… duh.' A voice inside her head lectured. Oh yea…

She heard her stomach rumble and she innerly groaned, sure that most everyone in the van must have heard it. She needed something to eat. But not something that would in any way upset her stomach…

As if someone had been reading her own thoughts they suddenly shouted frantically to be heard above all the 'noise' they thought must have been going on but were mistaken. As far as Tiger could tell, as she strained her ears to hear, there was absolutely no loud noises whatsoever. Just a few murmuring voices whispering soft innuendos and murmured endearments to whomever happened to be on their lap at the time. The situation rang all to clearly in Tiger's mind and she wondered frantically why. She didn't get the chance to question herself though as the anonymous breather made herself content and continued to observe Tiger's peaceful state.

Tiger wanted to scream.

"Oh! Oh! Wendy's pllleeeaasseeee!" Someone pleaded with an annoying tenacity that, in spite of everything, Tiger had to grudgingly admire. "Come on Joey, I could kill for some frenchies. And a frosty." The frantic edge in her voice died away on a fit of giggles. Tiger dared not open one eye. Who the hell were these people? And how did they know her nickname?

To her left someone was smacking gum in peace, grape-flavored, Tiger guessed, as the familiar smell made her nostrils quiver. "Oh, hey guys check this out!" The gum smacker said between attempts to blow a bubble. Tiger cocked her ear imperceptibly to listen as the sound of glossy magazine pages being flipped and ripped carelessly, to get to the good part, echoed in her ears. Fortunately the loud gum smacker had been a girl, so she could expect none of the leering male appreciation of the female body unclothed (and airbrushed!) that you would most typically find in any self-respecting drugstore, hidden beneath the many candies and honey-buns. The thought of honey-buns made her mouth water.

Caught in a far more interesting position, the breather backed away and went to inspect the gum-smackers magazine. Tiger heard the struggle and a soft curse. She bit her lip to keep from giggling, and then went on to listen as the fight ended and the winner took a big breath to begin her triumphant recitatation of the article that all girls must now have taped to their walls for extra security…

'What's Stopping You From Climaxing?' A familiar voice read aloud. Tiger heard the smile in her voice, even as she frantically skimmed it with her eyes, as any smart woman would do. Sometimes romance novels just did not cut it. Sometimes guys didn't either. This article was definitely a must-read… er, or so Tiger thought the girls must be thinking, she consoled herself quickly, even as she tuned in to listen. The girl opened her mouth to speak when suddenly the Volkswagon van took a sharp turn and Tiger was lurched from her seat. There were a few angry shouts, and at the commotion Tiger's all-knowing piering hazel gaze opened, and she met with the smirking mouth of an old arch-nemesis.

"Hey Ash," He said calmly, flicking the blonde hair out of his eyes and smiling was exaggerated ease, his grey eyes roaming her body.

She opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by an excited squeal and thump.

"You're awake!" She said, grinning and looking down at her. "Now we can have some fun." Tiger groaned. She didn't know if she could handle anymore fun.

* * *

Katherine Conners lounged in the passenger seat of the monstrosity, back in those days 'the Love Bug', and stared aimlessly out the dirty glass window, her chin perched in her hand. She looked almost troubled, but her reflection smiled subtly back at her. She was watching the countryside pass her by lazily, a grin on her face. It was so fitting. To be out of the smog and the city-limits, she felt she could be in touch with the mother here. She wondered how long it would take to get to Bethel, New York.

No longer did she saw the false bravado of the palm trees lining the avenue, she no longer saw the many decorative gaudy signs and those that looked down at her with something ridiculously close to shame.

Away from the fashionable city-goers, laughing too loud to cover the fact that theirs was not a designer dress, smiling flirtatiously at the boys that passed them, and walking off indignantly when those same boys came to talk to them. She snorted in disgust at the thought.

She had yet to do that to someone. Of course, she was 17 and she was hardly inexperienced but yet… she felt as if there was something that she was missing, some certain part of life that she was going to end up passing by if she didn't slow down soon and take it all in.

The thought depressed her, because she was all against racing against time and making up for her parents conservative, spotless record with her own prostests and riots. She had yet to succumb to authority, and she did not intend to begin anytime soon.

Hadn't it been she who had spit in that ignorant officers gleaming eyes? Hah. It sure had been, and she wouldn't change that fact for anything.

She was certainly not like many of the other girls, all preening in their lovely sundresses, made to lie in the meadows in, but instead infected by pollution and the ravishing thoughts of all ill-mannered young and old people. She shuddered at the thought and was grateful for her own baggy shirt and tight, ripped bell bottom jeans.

She looked over at Steve, his profile etched with the sun's generous pastels. He was wearing his hair long nowadays, and she had seen many of her friends sigh with longing as he walked past them with his long, self-assured strides. Of course, she knew how that felt. She too had had a crush on Steve, about 4 years ago, when first they met.

The memory made her smile, as she remembered the part where she had relentlessly drawn back her hand and delivered him one hell of a satisfying slap. Still, she felt a but guilty sometimes about it. After all, he hadn't really done anything wrong, just looked over at the street and whistled appreciatively at some blonde bimbo walking past in a dress far too short. And just before she was about to tell him she liked him too! Thankfully, after the awkward tension between them, they had resumed their friendship and continued on as normal. Right. Normal. Except…

Except, was it her imagination, or had he been checking her out when she had stepped out of the lake yesterday?

As if sensing her intense gaze, Steve looked over at her and smiled brightly, his face all sunshine and innocence. Inwardly she sighed with relief.

"Hey, you" He said softly, his brown eyes shining down at her. He remembered a time when she had once towered over him, at the peak of her height at 5'5". Now it was he who towered over her, at 6'2".

He gazed down at her, taking his eyes off the road momentarily to look at his blossomed young friend. Her long dark hair was midback, and her eyes were the innocent green of untouched moss, and they were fanned by long curling lashes. Even in her ripped jeans, and her somewhat baggy tshirt, she stil held a certain elegance he feared he could not penetrate. Just a few days ago her skin had been the color of pearls, but with all the stopping they'd been doing lately it was the burnished tan of a typical California girl, and the tan only set out to enhance the roseyness of her soft, lush mouth.

He groaned with restraint and tightened his hand on the wheels, willing himself to look away. What was _wrong_ with him? This was his best friend, his Kit-Kat. And he… he… he couldn't seem to stop the vision of tan legs intwined, the panting breath of eagerness, their damp, sweat-slicked bodies…

His _hands _were slicked with sweat, and he jerked into the next lane, thankful that there was no one to honk a painfully loud horn and flip him off, even though he deserved it.

"Stevie?" She had put a hand on his arm, and was gazing up at him in concern. She was so close he could see the flush in her cheeks, her parted mouth looked so deliciously tempting, and he wondered briefly what would happen if he were just to lean over and envelope her within his own arms, part her mouth and taste her essence...

"You'd run the damn thing off the road, that's what'd happen you idiot." He said.

"What?" She had backed away now, and was looking at him as if her were indeed some sort of raving lunatic. "Are you ok? Need me to take over?" Her tone was too gentle, too inviting.

"Godda-" Before he could finish a loud squeak interrupted him, and then the familiar sound of a cursing voice and soft, mocking laughter.

"That's Tiger, you should go see what's wrong." He said, his voice husky. She lingered for a moment, wondering at the sudden brackets around his mouth and the angry furrow in his brow, then she shrugged and left him alone.

He blew out a thankful breath, and prayed that something along the way would distract him, and maybe save him, from temptation. 'Deliver us from temptation…' or was it deliver us from evil? The former seemed more right at the moment, so he contented himself with thoughts of the rainstorm that seemed to be drawing dangerously nearer...

* * *

Ok, if you object to pot, sorry dudes, but this IS the '60s. ;-) Remember, I NEED MORE PEOPLE! 


	4. Oh take me back to Irving Hall

Blink sat in his bunk, alone and yet not lonely. He chanced a glance out the window and noted absently that it looked like rain. If that was, indeed, what a purple sky the color of a deep sickening bruise meant. His own simile struck him and he began, again, writing furiously in his thick, leatherbound notebook, with yellowed pages and endless lines. He recalled the incredulous, and even openly disgusted, looks he had received when showing off the treasure he had been given with heartfelt deliverance. With a chuckle, he brought to mind his best friend Racetrack's reaction 'Are you outta yer fuckin mind? Where's da good stuff at? Like, I dunno, somethin to live off of!' His friends had never understood his passion for writing, the joy it brought to him in those hours when everything seemed so bleak, so desolate, that there was no reason to go on living. He hadn't understood those hours either, where he'd lived but hadn't lived, moving in a depressed haze of greyness and fatigue; where life seemed not to have a point, and even the tempting Medda couldn't rise him from stupor.

It was, as he remembered, fate that had brought him this passion. A few months ago, less rather than more, he had run into some trouble. Literally. Walking along the streets, with less than 14 papers to sell and a crowd of gullibles just around the corner, he'd been feeling pretty damn good. That was, of course, when he had heard the piercing scream; a scream, he swore to this day, had echoed off each and every nook and cranny in New York City, catching in all the desolate streets and bloodthirsty alleys, an urgency not even an experienced man like himself could deny.

'Course, when he'd tried to say something of that sort to his friends, they'd accused him of waxing poetic and told him to have a beer and try and think "fuckin' clearly, goddamn".

But back to the scream, Blink swerved back onto the appropriate topic again, scolding himself harshly for his wandering tendencies. Although it was just such tendencies that had saved a young woman's life… and jeopardized his own. After hearing that scream, Blink had stood there in shock, at the aftermath of its effect, before a similar but less earth shattering cry brought him back to reality. He had shaken his head, dropped his papers, and took off at a dead run. Snow had begun to fall, and it suited the scene which had then greeted him; two young girls lying half dead on the frosted floor of an alleyway, a dark man with a large knife clenched in one just as large blue-veined fist, and then, blood on the purest snow that had ever touched New York cities streets. Blink took in the two girls quickly; torn clothing, frightened eyes, babysoft hair, tear streaked cheeks, and scrapes and bruises. One girl, though, was holding on to a knife wound near her chest, and trying not to cry. Blink, looking into the gorls crystal blue eyes, had been taken back to a familiar day, with a familiar friend… one he had not been able to save. The thought had altered Blink's perception of his own strength, his warped vision condemned to this one evil man before him, a matching gleam in his dark eyes.

No words had been exchanged, save for the two girls mewing screams as they struggled to keep hold of their conciousness in the freezing chill and the cold seeping into their thin, frail bones. 'PLEASE DON'T HURT HIM, UNCLE JACK! He's just a boy!' The one tried to shout, but weapons had been drawn, and it had been too late.

He remembered lunging at the twisted face, and that same instant his cheek pressed to the ground, the man getting away, and the girl's screaming in horror. Sometimes he was still haunted by the thought of lying there in the street, ignored as most urchins are, and pressing his hand to his side for warmth. It was awfully warm right on his side, he remembered thinking, then when he looked down… blood had come gushing out from where the man's knife had penetrated, and he had pissed his pants in the sheer horror of it all. He had been frozen, his fingers red and sticky, and the two girls had run off, leaving him to die. Lying his head on the concrete he shut his eyes and sucked his nostrils in, so as not to smell the stench of his own urine, or worse, of others he might very well be lying in…

From then, Blink couldn't remember much, nor had anyone coughed up much information the few times he had asked. Kloppman had later explained, with the boys help, what had happened. Apparently, the two girls had not run off to leave him to die, but to find the boarding house he must live at, for they had seen him seeling papers often and remembered his 'name'. Eventually, they had passed out right upon entering the Manhattan boarding house, and the doctor had been called. When the girls had regained conciousness they began babbling incoherently about a cyclops saving their lives. Then they had produced some identification they had found earlier of his, and from then on it had been a simple matter of finding him.

Once they had brought him home, Medda had apparently stripped him of his clothes with, thank goodness, neither of the ladies present and, if Blink recalled correctly, drawing a steaming bath for him and wrapping him in blankets, not once leaving his side, much to the delight of the doctor, who was, as he kept saying, her biggest fan. Blink doubted that very much, because after that, he had loved Medda even more, and had owed her a great deal more than just an admission fee to Irving Hall. She had nursed him to health, with her cooing phrases and soft voice, and when he had regained conciousness she had kept him bedridden. He had been unable to leave that bed, on doctor's orders, for a few weeks after he was fully capable of conciousness. Hence the notebook.

Blink gazed down at the notebook with great affection, recalling all the incidents that had led him to it. Medda had given it to him on a certain stormy day, when all he had wanted to do was sulk and complain about the unfairness life had in store for him. She had not, for even the briefest of instants, sympathized. Instead, she'd opened her large and flamboyant bag just like medda, he thought to himself and had pulled out a medium sized cardboard box, with only its mellow brown surface to keep the imagination piqued. 'Open it!' she'd said delightedly, and her contagion caught on, for soon Blink was smiling too, as he hurried to get the damn thing open…

And then. And then… it was beautiful. Its leather binding and light pages, scented with parfoom and cigarre smoke. Blink brought it up to his nose and noted, with a content sigh, the smell of old leather on the book's beautiful design. 'I think you should try to write in it every once in a while. To let some stuff out.' Before that, Blink would never have contemplated it, but the book seemed to call forth to him, asked him to touch its pages, fill their blankness with his own scratchy writing. 'Thank you…' he'd breathed in wonderment. Then, sensing the need to be alone with a new passion, she had left, and he had begun to write.

And he had scarcely stopped since.

He looked down at a poem he had just finished… or thought was finished. He wasn't sure yet.

_The sun was murdered.  
I watched it bleed death unto the sky.  
Red; the blood we bled together, the twinkle in our eyes our unbroken promises.  
Pink; the tears I spilled on our joined hearts, hoping to melt the love between them._

Graceful, wistful, sinking below my vision  
Trailing behind, the aching silence of twilight  
Bleeding midnight, goodbye, goodbye  
An eternity of black to blue beneath the lampost light  
Death is surrender

Stars bloom upon night's breast  
I hear her murmured sighs at the wind's brutally gentle caress.  
My heart is aching, pounding, spinning me about with its dizzy infection  
My throat is raw from the words I swallow  
The lies I offer.  
In the broken silence, I cover my ears  
A yielding sigh.  
I curse the night through my tears.

The sun was murdered.  
The night makes passion every night, with countless lovers to occupy.  
I am alone with my swallowed offers and averted eyes.  
Goodbye, goodbye...

He ruminated on the poem, wondering what had encouraged the sad yearning in the lines, the small little sigh that seemed to echo even after the lines were long read. Had he really written this? If so, he wanted proof that it was perhaps good. An unbiased opinion. Maybe… he looked around the mostly empty lodging house, filled with snores and curses, memories and fistfights, and he shook his head. Never, in a million years, could his friends understand what he was trying to put across… of course, maybe they could, maybe if he just—

"…So I says to her, dollface, I aint da one spendin' all my time on my knees."

The door burst open and in walked the noisy succession of top dogs; Race, Mush, Spot, Skittery, and where he, Blink, would have usually been walked Bumlets. But… what else was missing?

Racetrack caught sight of Blink and walked to the bed. "Blink, ole buddy ole pal, come widdus to Tibby's. I feel like I 'avent seen ya in forever and a day." Beneath the twinkle in his eye and the smirk on his lips, Blink could tell that his friend felt as if he had been abandoning him, and he felt a quick stab of pity that he dared not let show in his eyes.

"Alright ya bum, but yer buyin, ya heah?" Race chuckled and slapped him on the back. That's when it, quite literally, hit him. "Hey.. whea's Jackyboy?"

The boys looked puzzled. They didn't seem to know.

Spot stood to his full height "I ain't gonna waist what little daylight we have left talkin about a guy who's probably widda milkmaid down da street. Now move it ya lousy pieces of--"

It all happened at once, too quickly for anyone to comprehend at first. Sudden darkness, so complete and pitch black that Blink felt as if it were indeed something very real, harboring secrets, seeping into his numbing lungs to stifle his breaths of air. Then a crash, a yowl, and the sky splitting open in a miraculous inferno of white light, so bright as to be almost blinding to the naked eye, in a zigzag streak across the swirling purple. The sky emitted great roars of protest, so loud and meaningful as to shake the ground beneath them.

Then all was still.

No one moved, afraid to step on anyone's toes or risk stepping ON Spot Conlon. As if he heard their thoughts Spot growled into the darkness, as if he were its only voice. Blink shivered at the meaningful foreboding sign.

Suddenly someone was pounding up the stairs. Never before had Blink noticed all the creaks of the old place, but it gave him the creeps when he did.

"What the--"

A light of tinder and a strike of a match revealed the intruder as one of ghoulish candlelight and wide eyes.

"Kloppman?"

"Yea, its me. Now you kids listen; stay down, lock the windows, and don't try and leave. We're in for a storm tonight, a storm the likes of Manhattan hasn't seen in near a century. Everybody here? Okay, good. Now, go find the candles in the storeroom, close the shutters, lock the doors, and do a head count."

"Where are you gonna be, Kloppman?" Snitch asked speculatively.

"In da liquor cabinet. Where else?" He began to scuttle away, an old man used to the torments of nature, and who knew of the price they could all pay for her fury.

Blink looked out the window one last time. The oozing purple had faded to a menacing green, and through the fragile, shaking glass, Blink saw that the streets were being emptied, vendors were packing it away, and Pulitzer had drawn the shades.

This was gonna be sooome kind of storm.

Looking out at the empty streets, and flashing sky, Blink knew that this storm would bring something unexpected. He just hoped his closest friend would be there to see it.

"You better come back soon, Cowboy. Or else…" He didn't think of what else, merely grabbed his notebook, shook his head, and went to find if the storage room might hold a pack of cigars as well.


	5. MY COMP CRASHED

**My computer crashed guys…**

I'm _so sorry._

I'll have the next update soon.

**CTB**

-Spell-


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